


beautiful lofty things

by andibeth82



Series: a dialogue of self and soul [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Baby Names, Budapest, Comfort/Angst, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Introspection, Natasha and Steve are war buddies, POV Natasha Romanov, Protective Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Clint wants me to have this kid.” She twists her hand away, working the fingers of her right hand into a knot, her voice soft. “I want it. I do. But I’m…” She stops, shaking her head, as if trying to work up the courage to convince herself of what she’s going to say. “Clint told me I was a spy, not a soldier,” she finishes finally. “But I think…more than anything…I am a soldier. How do you let that part of you go?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	beautiful lofty things

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Bri](bobsessive.tumblr.com) and [Carrie](fidesangelus.tumblr.com) for being extra eyes and for brainstorming help. And to Bri for mandating that I use the Bear Paw somewhere in this series.

Natasha calls it balancing her ledger.

Clint would call it correcting, Tony would call it redemption, Steve would probably call it amending, but the process, whatever term you use to define it, it’s all the same and it’s a part of everyone who’s been broken apart at one point and then had to be put back together.

She balances by conceding, knows that she can’t be trusted with her memories more than anyone else can, but Clint has refused to be more than a foot away from her each time she’s strapped into the chair and whether it’s the comfort of his presence or the fact she’s getting used to the feel of needles under her skin, it’s increasingly less intense when she struggles to hold onto the part of her that’s whole and real, when her mind tangles with memories she’s unsure of and things she’d rather forget.

It’s overall not easy, but it’s easier than it has been, and she comes out of it with his name on her lips and his head near her ear and later, falls asleep with his hand around her waist the way it’s always been between them, subtle touches and silent understandings and mutual fears that mean more to both of them than words ever could.

And Natasha gets through it, for now.

 

***

 

“Absolutely not.”

She’s in the middle of sharpening a knife when Bruce proposes it, and it takes all her effort not to throw the weapon into his face (the fact that she actually takes the time to consider that she knows it’s harder than it looks for him to be killed is what causes her to put it down in the first place.)

“Natasha, your body is accepting the formula, but it’s also weakening your system.” He shrugs, shoving a paper covered with lines at her face. “As far as we can tell, that’s normal, but we just want you to be safe going forward.”

“Isn’t that the point of me being safe? Your countless injections and reports?” She meets his eyes with a hard glare as she pushes his hand away, and Bruce sighs into his coffee cup.

“We still have no idea what this is going to do over a prolonged period of time.”

“Well, find out. Wasn’t that your plan? Wait and see what happens? No one mentioned I needed to start worrying about being some sort of…some sort of _time bomb_.” She finishes the sentence before realizing what the impact of her words mean in his presence, and tries to overlook the quick flash of hurt across his eyes that materializes and disappears before he leans forward.

“I know this isn’t what you want but just trust me, Natasha. Okay? Can you do that?”

 _Maybe. Possibly. No_. She pushes away from the table without responding and returns moodily to the bedroom she shares with Clint, who opens the door wearing a look filled with guilt. Natasha crosses her arms.

“You knew about this.”

To his credit, he looks practically shameful as he bits down on his lip. “Did you want to hear it from me, or from someone who actually knows what they’re talking about?”

“I’d prefer not to have heard it at all.” She strips off her shirt angrily and finds her reflection in the mirror, one hand hovering around the middle of her stomach, where the smallest aura of a lump has become prominent. Clint falls silent, coming up behind her, lowering his head to her shoulder.

“I can’t believe this,” she mutters, turning abruptly and shaking him off. “And don’t pretend to feel bad. I can tell you’re enjoying it.”

He gives a half smile. “Just think, when this kid gets born, you’re going to wish someone made you go on bed rest.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’m used to staying awake for 48 hours, Clint. While also keeping watch on people who could kill me if I closed my eyes for more than two seconds. Do you think a screaming baby is going to be worse?”

“Are you really going to fight me?”

“Vehemently.” She pushes him roughly, a move rooted half in playfulness and half in annoyance, and he pushes back in tandem. His hands slam into her shoulders, knocking her off balance, and in an exchange that surprises both of them, she falls back easily onto the bed.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that,” Natasha says when she finally finds her voice, her words barely audible.

“No shit,” replies Clint, and there’s a tremor hidden underneath his sarcasm that she notices immediately. A chill cuts through her body and she doesn’t have to wonder if he’s feeling the same, catches the look in his eye as he pushes himself off her.

“You ever know me to best you in a fight, Tasha?”

She sits up slowly, running a hand through her hair. Even with Loki’s mind control, Clint had been able to put up a decent battle – one that Natasha would wager to one day tell him bordered on the most intense fight she’d ever had, and not just because of who was on the other end of it. The thought unnerves her, so she dives for deflection.

“I think there was that one time, in Cambodia, after you were drugged –”

“Natasha.”

She rubs at an invisible spot on her forearm and he lowers himself beside her, his thumb skirting over her wrist.

“Bruce said there might be side effects. We knew this. It doesn’t -”

“I know that. I just didn’t think the side effects would include you being a lot stronger than me.” Through her teasing, there’s a very real hint of fear that he knows no one else would have bothered to pick up on and he moves closer in response, squeezing her hand gently.

“Yeah, I know.” His voice drops as their fingers thread together. “And that’s why we’re doing this. No one is trying to make you feel less competent than you are, Natasha.” He stops and takes a breath. “But if we want to keep you safe – if _I_ just want to keep you safe – is that so hard to accept?”

 

***

 

It’s not that hard to accept, not when Natasha considers how far they’ve come and what they are to each other. So while being sentenced to bed rest (or for that matter, being pregnant) isn’t the way she would’ve ever thought she would spend her days, she has to admit there’s something about the whole situation that’s oddly relaxing. It’s not like walking around the Tower is a forbidden act, and though the gym is off limits (“I’ll get Tony to build a foam wall in here,” Clint says, in an attempt to bring her out of her grumpiness), she’s able to keep herself in control by helping with S.H.I.E.L.D. reports that Pepper has taken to sneaking in whenever Tony can break into the server. It’s a far cry from friendship, but Natasha feels herself loosening a little towards the CEO, and tries to let her actions show as much whenever she gets a moment alone.

And then, of course, there’s the added benefit of being around when Clint comes to bed. While Natasha has gotten more than a little used to the frequency of their comings and goings over the years, she’d lie to say she missed being able to curl up with his body beside her, knowing that she was there when he fell asleep and (mostly) when he woke up. After New York, after Loki, after the pregnancy, it was stabilization she never knew she craved, until she was hit with an intense feeling of needing to know that he was alright, that she was alright, that _they_ were alright.

“I’m supposed to be sleeping,” she mutters, flinging a hand backwards as Clint’s lips close over her ear. She feels her palm hit its mark as he grunts, falling back against the pillow, and her body adjusts to the cold as he drops away from her back.

“Seriously? What, has being on bed rest made you uninterested?”

“I’m not uninterested,” Natasha informs him, rolling over. “I’m pregnant and I’m tired.”

“Well, both of those things mean I don’t have to try too hard,” he responds cheekily as two arms snake around her shoulders. She opens her mouth to protest but before she can bark out another retort, his tongue slips between her teeth and she can’t stop herself from kissing back, pressing into the warmth of his hand as it moves up and down her neck. One finger trails along the underside of her leg, and Natasha consciously lets it get almost to her thigh before she pulls away.

“Stop.”

“Nat –”

“Stop.” She sits back, pushing her lips together, and with a soft sigh he eases up next to her. It’s a careful movement, his body edging closer in the slowest approach possible, a tried and true trust exercise of being in close proximity and learning how to read each other without asking permission of each other’s mental state. When he feels her relax, when he’s sure she’s completely accepted the fact that he’s not going to attempt anything further, he lets his head come to rest on the curve of her shoulder, aligning his breathing with her own.

“Budapest.”

Clint startles, his face a mask of surprise at the sound of her words. “You wanna talk about it? _Now?_ ”

“I want…” Natasha stops and shakes her head, staring at the wall. “I don’t know what I want.”

Clint lets his legs wrap around her ankles, his heel skimming the top of her foot. “Start at the beginning,” he says quietly – a suggestion, not a statement - and he feels her sigh underneath him. Getting Natasha to talk, to open up about things she’d rather keep to herself, it’s not a new situation, and he knows that judging by her admission a few nights ago, he’s only scratched the surface of secrets she holds close to the vest. He also knows that she’ll wait for as long as she can before talking about something, until she feels entirely ready and comfortable to accept both the words that will come out of her mouth and the validity of them.

“The market. The stabbing. The mission.” She stops and he squeezes her hand gently, his voice picking up where hers falters.

“The stitching. The hotel. The sex.” He reaches up, pushing hair away from her face before continuing. “The fact that I never told you how scared I was.”

“Because you thought you were dying?”

“No. Because I thought that I was going to die without telling you that you meant something to me.”

Natasha gives him a sidelong glance, an unmistakable look of skepticism sliding over her face. “You’re my partner, Clint. I always knew I meant something.”

“Yeah, well, I was talking about a little more than that….” Off her continued cynical look, he shrugs. “I guess sleeping with you was one way to put it. But then afterwards, when we were done, and you told me you couldn’t have children…”

“Oh.” Natasha makes a sound, straddling a tone that borders between timid and harsh, and picks at a loose thread on the covers. “That.”

Clint nods. “That.”

She scrubs a hand across her forehead, as if trying to will away the memory that’s been brought into the open, hidden until now underneath layers of denial and forgetfulness.

“It was never meant to be,” she says finally, her voice tired, as if she’s just completed a fight that’s taken all the energy out of her body. “Not like that. We were…we _are_ …we’re partners, Clint. We owe each other our lives, and then some. This wasn’t ever meant to be more than that, or some…some fairytale romance. And not having kids isn’t a thing I ever cried about. You know that.”

“But I still loved you,” he interjects, shifting closer. “And I knew that, even if I knew you could never be a mother. I didn’t even care. As long as it was just you and me.” He looks down, almost embarrassed by the weight of his words and the intensity behind them – neither of them tended to allow their emotions to escape so easily and so bluntly, and she finds her breath catching in her throat as she watches the way his body seems to curl in on itself.

“Budapest let me realize that. It didn’t change it.”

Natasha leans back, letting her head roll onto his shoulder. “And that was…” She pauses, turning slightly. “I don’t understand. All these years…why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Well, I wanted to. But you seemed a little upset at the time that I had almost ruined my stitches, so…”

She chuckles slightly as he trails off, the vibration of her laugh reverberating against his shoulder blade. “Yeah? How do you know it wasn’t your bed talk?”

“I don’t,” he says with a smile that lifts the corners of his mouth a fraction of an inch upwards. “But all things considered…” Clint lets his hand fall by her stomach, his fingers tracing the swelling skin as she runs a hand through his hair. It’s a kind of protectiveness that makes her feel secure in a way she can’t explain, and she suddenly finds herself thankful that she doesn’t have to.

“This pregnancy thing is complicated,” she comments instead, the mood almost lifted, and Clint sighs.

“Tell me about it. I mean, we’re not even married.”

“Thank god for that,” Natasha intones, a wolfish grin settling across her face. “I can barely handle you as a partner. Can you imagine how much worse it would be if we were in a committed relationship? With rings and white dresses and vows?”

“Obviously, the worst thing in the word,” Clint responds dryly, but there’s a smile hidden underneath his monotone. After a beat, he meets her eyes quizzically. “You know, Nat, all these years, hotel rooms and missions, hell, even playing house…you never struck me as the type to settle.”

“Yeah, well.” She looks down and shrugs in a way that makes her seem fragile and unsure, an expression that seems more Natalia than Natasha, more innocent orphan than Red Room graduate. “I never wanted to. Until I met you.”

 

***

 

It’s not quite dawn when Natasha stirs, the room still cloaked in the heavy darkness of night and shadows taking up residence across the walls and on the floor. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hears Clint chiding her about sleep and rest and babies, but every time she closes her eyes she finds herself snapping awake almost instantly and at full attention.

After about twenty of such frustrated attempts, Natasha swings her legs out of bed, turning to meet Clint’s still form: a tight ball hunched into a curl. It’s a position she’s more than familiar with – right down to the fingers spread out against the mattress in perfect bow formation – but without the urgency or stress of being on guard, his face looks ten years younger, the lines around his eyes smoothing out in a relaxed look she thinks she’s maybe only seen a handful of times throughout their history together.

Natasha reaches for the sweatshirt draped over the back of the bedrails and slips quietly between the crack of the half open door, padding with noiseless ease down the Tower’s winding staircase. The glass panel leading out to the balcony on the penthouse level opens soundlessly, and it’s not a surprising sight to see the surroundings lit – Natasha knows that between the AI running Stark’s system and his own billions, there’s enough electricity to generate the building at all hours. What _is_ a surprising sight is the silhouette of another figure, legs outstretched on the ground and back straight in almost perfect form. She moves closer, wrapping her arms around her body, her eyes narrowing enough to discern, among other things, a glass bottle that catches flicks of white sparkle under the softly dimmed bulbs.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Steve flinches as he looks up, the pencil clenched between his fingers easily dropping off the sketchpad balanced precariously on his kneecap.

“What do you think?”

Natasha doesn’t respond and he curls his legs into a triangle, an open invitation that she accepts by lowering herself into the space while her eyes adjust to the multicolored lines dotting the landscape of buildings stretching out in front of her, more than a few still sporting barely-there black holes in the space of lighted windows.

“I think it sucks. Doesn’t it?” Natasha nods towards the bottle. “I mean, not so much when I’m trying to win a drinking game, but most other times…” She trails off and Steve laughs, a sound that in turn makes Natasha smile.

“You wish you could?”

“All the time.” His face takes on a look of dejection. “When Bucky died…after they found me in the ice…after the battle. I tried on the road, you know, when I got down sometimes. When I thought too much. Won the pub drinking game at a sports bar in Arizona on a particularly bad bender.” He wraps his arms around his knees and in the picture that follows, Natasha thinks for the first time that she can truly see the skinny kid from Brooklyn, the one who was rejected from the army and beat up on a daily basis and most likely sat up on nights just like this, with a sketchbook and a pencil, thinking about life in flashes of “what if.”

“You might one up me, though,” Steve continues, his voice breaking the silence. Natasha smiles.

“I might.” She bumps his shoulder almost unconsciously. “You’ve never attempted the bear paw.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Bear paw?”

“It’s Russian. We’re very proud.” She stretches her own legs forward. “I’ll play it with you at some point, as long as you don’t tell Tony. I think he’s still sore about losing.”

Steve lets out another low laugh and moves his hand, a half sketched Empire State Building barely discernable underneath his palm.

“You really don’t know how lucky you have it, Natasha.”

She cocks her head and purses her lips together in a frown. “My pregnancy? The injections? I appreciate the sentiment, Rogers, but I don’t know how you’d classify that as lucky.”

Steve’s grin remains on his lips, but decreases slightly in the wake of her response. “You have Clint. And us. And I…well, I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people who have your back.”

Natasha moves her gaze forward, focusing on a horizon that she can almost accept as normal, if she looks hard enough, if she forgets that turning even the slightest degree to the left brings to sight a cloud of ruin that still holds itself over a large part of the city. The thought causes something to burn inside her chest, and she closes her eyes to a blissful picture of darkness before she speaks again.

“Which one?”

“Both of them,” he replies without hesitation. “Bucky was my best friend. Peggy was the only person I ever loved.” He leans forward, running a hand through his hair. “You think everything’s good, that you can handle the world…and then life throws you a curveball.”

Natasha feels her lips twitch up instinctively. “Don’t sell yourself short, Rogers. That curveball was pretty epic.” In lieu of finding more words, she reaches out, their fingers loosely twisting together.

“I had a date.”

Natasha nods. “I know.”

“I was supposed to die.”

“Me too.”

They both fall silent at that, and Steve grabs for the bottle before Natasha breaks the quiet, surprising them both with her words.

“Clint wants me to have this kid.” She twists her hand away, working the fingers of her right hand into a knot, her voice soft. “I want it. I do. But I’m…” She stops, shaking her head, as if trying to work up the courage to convince herself of what she’s going to say. “Clint told me I was a spy, not a soldier,” she finishes finally. “But I think…more than anything…I _am_ a soldier. How do you let that part of you go?”

“I was fifteen when I had my first real fight.”

The abrupt response startles her, and she meets his eyes with a mixture of surprise and confusion as Steve moves his chin into his hands, letting his tongue skirt across his lower lip.

“People had been beating me up since I could walk. I was kind of…kind of an easy target. But that was the first time I ever tried to fight back.” He smiles faintly. “Got real pissed off, and hit the kid right square in the mouth. He lost three of his teeth, and I was suspended for a week.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Natasha answers slowly, almost unsure of how to respond. Steve laughs, a bitter, almost cynical sound.

“Yeah, that was the first time. Kid got so upset, he followed me home and beat me up again before I got there. It was pretty bad. I remember Bucky saying later that he was gonna kill him, and I just kept thinking…well, I wanted to kill him. But I didn’t think I could ever do it.”

Natasha looks down, knowing better than to prod at the thread of narrative that’s slowly being unraveled. “So what happened next?” She asks carefully instead, and with complete nonchalance.

“What everyone knows. I applied for the army. I was rejected, Erskine found me, Stark’s father gave me the serum, and I became this…person.” He gestures to himself almost comically, his hands brushing across his broad chest. “We were killing dozens of guys every day without a second thought, while I was parading around as a political icon complete with showgirls and speeches. My friends were out there risking their lives. People looked to me to be the face of the war and in reality, I wasn’t a part of anything better than the ones who were being murdered. Innocent people who had grown up badly and made all the wrong choices.” He shakes his head, taking another drink. “I thought I was a killer. Turns out…people saw me as a hero.”

Natasha runs a hand through her hair, digesting the weight of his words. “You haven’t killed like I have,” she says slowly, and Steve slings his arms across his lap.

“No,” he agrees. “I’d argue to say your past is darker than anyone’s…mine included. But eventually, you start to move past what people say you are and you focus on what people see in you. You’re a lot of things to a lot of people here, but you’re not death. Not to us. Not to this child.” He looks over, and when she doesn’t respond, he clears his throat again.

“So, uh…how are the tests?”

“What do you mean?”

Steve looks confused. “The injections? I mean, I was just wondering how they were going. Bruce won’t say much, patient confidentiality and all that…” He trails off as her brow continues to furrow. “I mean, my blood. The serum.” When she still doesn’t respond, he hesitates. “They didn’t…”

Natasha hardens her gaze, letting out a long sigh that seems to take all the air out of her body.

“No. They didn’t.”

“Typical.”

“What?” Steve’s voice is so low that she has to strain to hear it.

“Well, Tony never tells anyone he’s doing anything. He asks someone for an idea, and then runs with it, would rather just do the whole thing himself than think of the feelings of the people involved. Not unlike his father in that way. But it’s why I was brought in in the first place. He thought that they could use my blood to help counteract some symptoms in you since we had the same…experiences.” He spits out the last word a little too harshly, and watches her forehead crease. “Guess I just assumed you knew.”

“Never assume,” Natasha says sullenly, shaking her head. “That’s your first mistake with the world today.” She pauses, digging her fingers into the ground. “So they’ve been using your blood to make sure this baby carries to term?” Out loud, the words don’t sound nearly as ludicrous as they did in her head, but they still taste funny on her tongue.

“Something like that,” Steve replies uneasily. “I don’t really have all the details. I just show up, do my blood work, call it a day.” As if to prove a point, he raises his arm, and in the growing light, Natasha can see faint pinpricks dotting across his skin, small circles nearly identical to the ones on her body and barely visible among the curve of his elbow. He catches her eye.

“You wish they would’ve told you.”

Natasha smiles wryly, deciding to choose her words carefully. “I wish a lot of things.”

“Sometimes it’s easier not knowing all the details,” he offers, mutely acknowledging the sentiment behind the words, and she nods slowly, as if her brain is trying to process a response in a language that she’s not quite familiar with.

“Sometimes.”

Steve reaches forward and lets his fingers close around the curve of her shoulder, tightening them gently.

“I’m going to find some food. You want something?”

Natasha shakes her head, turning her attention back to the sky. “Thanks.” She manages a smile. “You go ahead. I’m just going to…stay out here for a bit.”

Steve nods as he gets up, one hand gripping the spine of his sketchpad, the other pressed against the frame of the glass door.

“For what it’s worth, Natasha…I think you’re going to make a good mother.”

 

***

 

Clint wakes with a start as the sun starts to stream more forcefully through the glass of the windowpane, the cold spot next to him suggesting that Natasha has been up and out for a lot longer than a few minutes. He throws on a loose tee-shirt before heading out of the bedroom, figuring he’ll meet her in the kitchen and surprised to be met by Tony, Pepper and Bruce instead.

“Boy, you really do sleep all the time,” Tony comments idly and Clint sighs, grabbing a mug with slightly more force than he means.

“Helps me shoot better.” As he slides into his chair, he manages to pick up a few choice words of the conversation that’s happening across the table, and the result nearly causes him to spit his coffee back into the cup.

“You’re taking _bets_?”

Tony rolls his eyes, and even Bruce can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face as he looks up from his papers.

“Shouldn’t you be crawling around in one of the air ducts with some breadcrumbs or something?”

“Tony,” Pepper admonishes from behind him without turning around, one hand on the coffee maker. Clint scowls.

“Oh, come on.” He waves a hand in the air. “For one, I’ve seen you in the vents. For another, don’t look so shocked. I know you’re smarter than that, or you wouldn’t be here to begin with.”

“This has nothing to do with being surprised. Or the vents,” Clint adds as an afterthought, running a hand through his hair. “It has everything to do with you making bets about my kid.”

“Hey, last I checked, we’re saving your girlfriend’s life _and_ we saved most of the city together. So by my standards, we’re allowed to have some fun.”

Pepper snorts quietly, and though the sound causes Tony to slump back into his chair at the noise, it doesn’t deter him from continuing.

“I think it’ll be a boy. Rogers seems to thinks it’ll be a girl.”

“Yeah?” Clint stirs sugar into his coffee. “How do you figure that?”

“I don’t.” Tony shrugs, and Bruce gives another silent grin without looking up. “ _My_ guess was based on mathematical calculations thanks to some statistical data JARVIS was able to dig up. I’m pretty sure Rogers just threw in his opposing choice to be a smart ass. Or to win some cash. Not that he needs any, really. Point is, between the two of us, we can’t lose.”

“Great,” Clint mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Just great.”

“Relax.” He hops off the chair, striding across the floor. “I’m just saying, if this kid comes out anything like Romanov, I think they’ll be a winner no matter what sex they are. Though, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure if the world can handle another Natasha.”

“What’s the matter, Stark? Worried that my kid could outsmart you even if they’re not spying on you?” Clint lets himself grin triumphantly while a part of Tony’s face drops just enough for him to know the billionaire, for all his smarts, really had no idea how much Natasha had shared about her time at Stark Industries. He mentally catalogues the realization in case he needs more comeback arsenal at a later date.

“I take it you guys haven’t decided on a name yet,” Tony comments back in an attempt to keep the conversation running, and without thinking, Clint looks up sharply.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch.” He shrugs. “Not a real bad thing, maybe you wanna know the sex before you pick a name, anyway –”

Clint cuts him off, wrapping a firm hand around his mug as he pushes away from the table, leaving Tony’s chatter behind him. He presses the warm ceramic to his forehead in the hope that it will possibly alleviate the sudden nagging feeling of uneasiness brought on by Tony’s words, which are now rolling around in his mind in addition to his stomach.

It doesn’t.

Clint sighs as he steps into the elevator, the lift bringing him down two short floors, where the doors open to the faint sound of television buzz and Natasha stretched on the couch with her head turned in the direction of the sound. Seemingly entranced by some version of daytime programming, she doesn’t say anything as he moves towards her, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the back of the cushion.

“You know...” He stops, looking over, but she seems to refuse to acknowledge his presence. “Tony and the others were talking,” he finally finishes, hoping that something within the sentence might grab her attention. “About a name. Which I’m thinking we should probably decide on at some point.”

“Yeah.”

Clint watches from behind as she starts to shift, without removing her gaze from the television. He eases himself down on the couch next to her and clears his throat quietly, gently.

“Any, uh…any ideas?”

“Hmmm,” she replies distractedly, gaze still unmoving, and Clint fights back an audible groan of frustration. Half of him wants to shake her by the shoulders while the other half knows her better than that, knows that there’s a damn good reason behind why she’s refusing to acknowledge his otherwise simple question. He leans back, waiting to see if she’ll take the lead, and frowns when she doesn’t.

“Didn’t know you liked cooking shows so much.”

That gets her attention as she turns, finally meeting his eyes. Clint smiles.

“Hi.”

Natasha glares and swats in the direction of his head, her palm just missing the skin under his eye. “I never left.”

Clint shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me. Honestly, felt like I was talking to a wall there for a bit.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “And that’s different from any other time you’ve talked to me?”

He ignores the return comment, scooting closer on the couch. “Not the point. You’re avoiding my question, and I wanna know why.”

Her whole body seems to deflate at the words, and she pushes a hand through her hair as she inches one leg upwards.

“Fine. You’re right, and I don’t want to talk about picking a name, Clint. Not now. Can we just drop it?”

He leans closer, a push back both physically and metaphorically. “No, we can’t.”

“Jesus, _why_?”

“Because.” He stops in advance of saying more, watching her draw her knees to her chest, her hand unconsciously drifting over the bump in her middle. The way her eyes drop to the floor is like a sharp signal of everything about her behavior he’s missed since he joined the conversation, the things that that he should have picked up when she first spoke but failed to realize until now.

“You don’t want to name it,” he says slowly, understanding settling over his face, and when she turns he knows he’s figured out the one truth she might never have the courage to say out loud. Natasha sighs, her face a mask of tiredness and defeat.

“I do,” she says quietly, looking away. “But when I give this…thing…when I give it a name, it makes it mine. It means that I’m responsible for it.” She pauses, her voice wavering, and takes a breath to steady herself before continuing.

“I never had a name. I used to, and then it was taken…it was the only real thing that I ever had.” She turns her gaze carefully back to the television, and Clint swallows down his emotion in the silence that follows. “I don’t even remember what it feels like to be real…to have something real.”

“You have me,” Clint says quietly, lacing their fingers together, tightening his hold on her skin. He draws her closer into his grasp, his spare hand finding her face. “And you have this child. And this child won’t have that life. I promise, Natasha. We’re going to raise him, or her, to be whatever the hell they want to be. They’re not going to be taken away or…or experimented on.” His voice is barely audible against the noise filtering through the room and he gently maneuvers her head towards his, managing a smile as her flesh grazes his. “This child is going to grow up, make their own choices. Have a real chance at life.”

“Someone told me that once, too,” she murmurs into his mouth, sinking into his grasp, and he wraps an arm around her shoulder.

“Yeah, well. Whoever said that wasn’t me.” He reaches for one of the many blankets that litters the armrest of the couch, draping one over half of her shoulder, content to let her feel vulnerable for as long as she needs and careful to shield her enough from view so that no one would be able to see her position if they walked in.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she finally admits, and it’s possibly the first time since she realized she was pregnant that he’s heard her question her own strength. He shakes his head, shifting slightly.

“Yes you can.” He raises his head, letting her chin find the space between his neck and his shoulder. “I’m right here, Natasha, and I’m not going to leave your side. I’m going to be with you the whole damn way, even if I have to be forced to watch the birth. Even if those guys try to kick me out. Even if Fury promises me one of those free hot breakfasts for the rest of eternity.” He stops, brushing a hand across her arm. “Do you believe me?”

Natasha looks up, her eyes slightly brighter than normal, though he knows to anyone else she would still look entirely emotionless. “Yes.” Her words speak more into his arm than the air, but he hears it anyway. “I believe you.”

“Good.” Clint smiles, bringing his leg onto the couch so that they’re practically in each other’s laps, and kisses the side of her head. “Now, let’s brainstorm some damn monikers before Tony makes another bet that costs me my weapons.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, or even read a little bit of this series so far. I love telling this story, and you all keep me going. (Also, I'm aware this isn't the most action-filled chapter, but I wanted to get one more post in before the new year. I promise the pace will pick up - and for those of you who like angst filled introspection, well, there's some of that coming too.)
> 
> i. I took a bit of liberty with Steve's history to fit the confines of my narrative in his conversation with Natasha, but hopefully it didn't end up straying too far from the MCU.
> 
> ii. Yes, [the Bear Paw](http://www.mandatory.com/2012/09/25/11-crazy-foreign-drinking-games/10) is a real drinking game - and a Russian one at that. But because I am not Natasha, nor a super soldier, I don't claim to have ever tried it.


End file.
